The Girl at the Register
by xXSimplySunshineXx
Summary: The girl at the register remained an enigma to a young man who had become desperate. Desperate enough to attempt bravery in his conversation with her, perhaps even blatant forwardness, just to extent their spoken exchange for more than the hour he was used to. For a month, the new emotion called "love" had churned inside his system, and it was a determined emotion indeed.


**Author's Note: **Personally, I don't even know what this is, and that usually means its awful and isn't worth a penny with a hole in it. But it did get me out of the writing rut for a while, so I thought I'd publish it anyway and see what you awesome folks thought about it. Enjoy! (I hope.)

* * *

The warm -and almost sickening- scent of baked sugar overwhelmed the young man's olfactory senses, as a ring from the store bell signaled his entrance. A charming shop for certain was the place of business: pink trim accented the otherwise light brown walls; several table sets were situated behind large windows to the back of where he stood, allowing a boundless amount of sunshine to seep into her dark hair. At least, it seemed like such to him each time he visited.

She was always behind the counter, slamming her tiny fist on the top of her dilapidated cash register. The object responded with a satisfying cling, without fail. Her ebony locks curled to the end of her shoulder blades, and he never saw her without a clip pulling it back to one side. Although another girl worked beside her, he paid no attention; and although he had no sweet tooth, again and again he reentered this bakery shop, if just to see and converse with her for a minute.

Long eyelashes complimented her familiar round, blue eyes, as hers met his in a gentle fashion, which made the muscles in his knees begin to collapse. The symptoms of his wretched, pleasant illness grew more intense with every meeting.

Thin lips stretched into a smile, displaying whitened teeth. "Hello again," the girl greeted. Softness defined her soprano tone of voice, as well as her overall demeanor. He could tell.

"Hi," he grinned with no relent, ignoring a flutter that sprung in his chest. "Do you think, could I have the-the same thing I had last, all the other times? If it's no, if you have it."

"Sure we do," a slim finger reached upward to swipe back a renegade strand of hair. "I also saved a special sugar cookie, just for you. The original order was cancelled, so I fixed it up a bit." Her head disappeared under the counter, and returned, this time, with an alabaster package in her hands.

"Thanks," their palms brushed across one another, and for that sweet second, he ceased breathing altogether. "Oh, and I'll be right there with your coffee," that soft hand slid from the counter-top, and her delightful frame skipped off to the coffee machine.

He was rather amused with the fact that she retained some girlish tendencies, or at least, it cemented proof of her age. She was eighteen. And that was all he knew. Expect for the duel facts that she was perfect, and that she would be his wife. He had no knowledge of her address, phone number, if she was attending a college, or even her name. The morning he entered the bakery, on a simple whim, was the day he forked over what little sense he possessed in order to merely know her. She was, then, the cause of his numerous sleepless nights, unproductive days, and abnormal behavior. He never minded, oddly, when she caused a tremble in his knees, or switched his brain off so his words refused to come out correctly. It was a given consequence from his condition, and rather charming at times. Interesting feelings were often classified as such. Besides, most men when they met a pretty girl acted the same way, he supposed.

A myriad of hummed notes sounded from his right. Curious, he diverted his attention from the girl, to the other one; the small, blonde one who swept the floor. Strangely, during his visits the young man never noticed her. She was a happy little thing, or so it seemed. Never did he see her without a ponytail, and a brightness about her complexion. However stunning this other woman might have appeared to another man, none compared to the girl at the register. Her gentle, complex beauty was tenfold that of any girl he ever had the chance of meeting, and yet somehow, she was going to be his wife. Despite the fact that he knew nothing of girls, since he often found a majority of them shallow and trivial. Not this girl. There was an air about her, a different aura per se, that made her special from all the rest. But how would he grab her attention?

That thought had never occurred to him, and while the girl at the register was fixing his order, he pondered on it. He was a simple man of twenty years, he had no reasonable nest egg to speak of, and no way to provide for a family as of yet. In regards to appearance, he was simple in that area as well. Still, he held true to the dream of gaining this girl, a marvelous girl, as his bride.

"Sir?" a quiet voice broke through his thoughts. The instant his brain snapped back to life, a premonition of dread strained his heart. Sure enough, there she stood in front of him, the girl of his constant thoughts. He realized his expression was akin to that of a deer in the headlights, but at that time, control of his facial nerves was the least of his concern. Once he swallowed the massive lump situated within his throat, he forced himself to regain mastery of his nervous system.

"Hm, what?" he spoke as if he suffered from laryngitis.

"Your coffee?" the girl at the register lowered her eyes to the medium-sized brew in her grasp.

"Oh, oh, coffee. Still four fifty?" the young man reached into his pocket and retrieved a wallet. The girl hummed an affirmative response, so he nodded and began to count out the correct amount of currency. "How much for the sugar cookie?" he lifted the container in his other hand.

"That's nothing, really. It's free."

"I feel like I'm taking something from you. Stealing, I mean."

"It's no trouble. I like decorating things."

A smile crossed his chapped mouth, though he wished their conversation could continue into the late hours. He enjoyed the mildness of her voice, and the humility that infected her phrases. Never before had he met a woman with such grace, even in the way that she spoke. "All right then, thank for that. Here you go," he laid down the money, and by some form of chance, his line of sight deflected towards the row of bar stools, placed right beside the charming counter she stood behind. An instantaneous burst of excitement boosted his ego, and while it remained, he scrounged up his limited courage and burst out, "Would you mind if I sat over here, and talked with you for just a little while?"

The dark-haired man surprised even himself with the forwardness of his request. Nevertheless, the girl found no fault in it, as she smiled in a meek sort of way. Her hands clasped behind her back, and she pressed her lips together. "I'm sorry, but I can't. I have baking to do."

In his twenty years of life, he never sank lower than in that single moment. "Maybe some other time?" he tried his hardest not to let disappointment slither into his voice.

A certain reticence saturated the fashion in which she stood, "Some other time."

One more smile passed between them before he compelled his legs to recommence. His regular table awaited him on the left side, in a small corner away from the rest of the sets, where he could glance over at the girl a few times without her acknowledgment. Usually, after he had finished his night work and had returned to a reposeful apartment, the science major often pondered the fact that he could never seem to take his gaze off her. Although there was a slim chance she might have caught him at it on one occasion or another, his fear was trumped by dire and desperate need. He had no idea how intense emotions were until experiencing what happened when a man met a woman, and they fell in love. Or one of them did.

The profile of her features offered quite an astonishment. Her freckles were more prominent on the left side of her nose, due to the distortion of the pigmentation of her skin. He found no fault in the fact that parts of her flesh were more tan than the rest; it would even out given enough time, besides, it was imperceptible except to his trained eye. He saw the girl tuck yet another piece of hair behind her ear, and continue on with her work. She was precise with each task she performed, in this case, it was counting out the shop's inventory. Elegance radiated from her simple aura, from the way she stood and swiped that troublesome lock of ebony tresses behind her ear. He wanted to preserve the way she looked in that moment - graceful and pure, like an untouched daisy left to bloom in a country meadow.

There were dozens upon thousands of daisies in that meadow, yet one stood out from all the rest. It wasn't more fragrant, tall, or its petals more gorgeous than the others, it was the mere idea that she was _clean_. For that cause, he had a sort of guilt about plucking her out of that meadow, however, he would nurture and nourish her like she was himself. The college man continued to gaze at her, not in lust, hardly, but through eyes which held only adoration. For what aspect of her personality, or attitude, he was in awe of escaped him at the moment. Thinking, in general, also avoided him during the short time he was around the girl. A series of taps invaded his eardrums, from where in the small shop he had no clue. So, he stole himself away from the girl at the register, and began to look around until his line of sight returned to the table at which he sat. There, lied the college man's answer: a pencil positioned in his finger drummed the table top.

His surprise silenced the metallic knocks, and with his other hand, he searched his pant pocket - his pencil had disappeared, into his hand by some manner of magic. Breathing a sigh, the young man twirled the "stolen" writing utensil, and resumed his gentle observation of the girl. Perhaps his constant action caused him some alarm; after all, he was staring -albeit politely- at a girl he hardly knew. What caused this erratic, and somewhat creepy, behavior he didn't know, nor did he care. Elation was forever cruel to men such as him: the quiet, awkward, absurd, and brilliant ones; he never dared question its reason to strike, the few times it did.

It was a shame he could not view her reposeful face more often. The only time he was able to memorize her, was the ten minutes he was allowed to !spend in the bakery. Afterward, the young man was required to return to another one of his numerous classes. He was thankful it was the last one in his day, he had the most horrible trouble in concentrating on anything after seeing her. A sigh escaped his lips as he twirled the pencil, and wondered (as he did often) why this was happening to him, of all people. He was nothing special, besides his abnormal amount of intelligence, and each time he strived for a goal, he failed. Nonetheless, he retained a confidence he had not felt in years. He just knew she was the one, but he still wished to clutch a picture of her in the lonely hours to remind himself he wouldn't be alone much longer.

By some form of chance, his sight drifted towards the pencil within his grasp, and by another sort of luck, he was struck by an idea. Using his limited art skill, he could draw a simple sketch of her, just as a reminder. And what a beautiful reminder it would be. Now lit by a flame, the young man stole a starting glance at the girl, as well as his ever-present notebook from his other pocket, and began to draw. A few lines later, and he had drawn a rough sketch of the outline of her face. As he started to get further along, he realized that his artistic side had shrunk to miniscule proportions. No wonder his blueprints looked a tad disheveled. In spite of that, he continued on with the monotonous work of portraying her in an artistic form, even though she was much too lovely to express with mere lead lines. Especially by his limited talent.

Due to his absentminded critique session, the young man avoided notice of the new track the girl's head was on, or that the circumvolution caused her sight to fall in sync with his. It also made her aware that he was looking at her. Fear crippled his motor system, and stifled any air that attempted to make its way down his throat. He wanted his mouth to open, for some words to discharge from his vocal cords in order to quench the intense thirst that invaded his capacity to think. Any intellect that he might have gained, was removed in that instant. All he understood was that he had to abolish the eye contact between them. So, the young man did. Nevertheless, his heart continued to take giant leaps into his throat, surpassed only by the rapid pace of his pulse.

A lump planted itself within his throat, and refused to leave. He swallowed about five times, yet the lump remained. The young man had no recollection of when his heart raced in such a manner; fast, and unyielding. How could he have ruined his chances with the girl in a lone flash? Idiocy was no stranger to him, but the utter asininity of his preceding incident proved to be the worst case of his deprivation of discernment. Heat choked out the color from his cheeks, and replaced it with a garnet hue that rivaled even the reddest rose. To add to the dark-haired man's set of troubles, his hands began to tremble like a miniature earthquake. It was inevitable; he had to dodge the prison walls that were encroaching upon him with each passing second. So, forgetting about the coffee he paid for -as well as the sugar cookie more valuable than any precious metal- the young man bolted from the pleasant bakery; quickly, quietly, and with great remorse. Like none he ever felt before. Which did not include the fact that he left the notebook on the table as well.

The girl noticed the strange man leave their humble shop. Often, she would catch his quiet gaze on the side of her face, though their eyes never met in the process. Her hands, on their own accord, clasped themselves together in a motion of sympathy. The thought of scaring the man away by a mere glance never occurred to her, nor did she mean for it to happen. However, she would have lied if she mentioned that his presence did not stir a certain impression of caution, as it did with most women when a man looked at her in a special way. Shaking her head of ebony hair, the girl at the register went back to the tedious task of filling out index forms - from memory. When she was about finished, her friend of five years as well as a fellow employee, Louise, poked her in the rips with what felt like the handle of a broom.

"Hey, that spider's come back from the grave." Upon the utterance of the word "spider", the girl spun around on her heels to see a gray menace crawling along the floor.

"Well, I'm not touching it," the light tones of the girl's voice trickled in a stream of perpetual fear. Deep inside her subconscious, she was a tad bit ashamed of still being frightened by arachnids. (And not very big ones, at that.) Still, the other, more sensitive section of her invisible soul consoled her in declaring that she was only human. If she partook in feminine revulsion, then so be it. She had no qualms with being a girl, and that included the usual quirks that pursued a human of that gender.

"It's moving," Louise side-stepped to get further away from the bothersome bug.

The girl nudged her friend, "You kill it, you've got the broom."

"I'm not touching it either," the blonde expressed her equal fear in the eight-legged creature.

With no other option available, and the spider fast approaching, the girl was left with only one defense mechanism: her father. "Papa!" she called at the top of her lungs, and within seconds, the man that was her father appeared from the adjacent kitchen.

He was a tall man, her father. Tall enough to intimidate anyone that dared threaten his daughter; human or beast. If the two were not interconnected at the time. Despite his toughened appearance, there was a kindness surrounding his worn features. As there was in every good, concerned husband and father. "Yes, yes, what, what, what?" he said in a quickened, breathless voice.

Both the girl, and Louise, pointed towards the ashen arachnid, but it was the girl who spoke. "Spider. Floor. Big. Kill it."

"A spider? I need a _heart replacement_ for a tiny spider?" The father crossed his arms, a glint in his eyes displaying definite displeasure in his daughter's actions.

"It's a big spider, Papa, and its invincible," the girl defended herself, feigning innocence and biting her bottom lip.

"I doubt that," he said to the two. The father motioned to the broom Louise held, and with promptness, she handed it to him. It did not take long for the man to eradicate the spider, as well as dispose of it with a paper towel. "There. All gone. Work, the both of you." He gave a long glance toward both of the girls, but in spite of his clear frustration, he still took the time to ruffle his daughter's hair, much to her annoyance.

"Thank goodness that thing's gone," Louise broke the silence. However, the girl's mind had already wandered.

"You know, that man, the one that just left, has come in every day this month," she thought aloud while patting down her now-mussed tresses. "He makes me nervous. And I see him looking at me sometimes, it freaks me out."

"I think he's harmless enough," her friend offered a gentle point of view, and as usual, she succeeded.

The girl was less than convinced, also a usual. "I'm sure they said that about Ted Bundy, too."

Louise shook her head, "Gracious, you are the worst sort of worrywart in the world." She smiled, and the brightness of that simple gesture lightened any and all roughness between the two friends. "Besides, you're sweet to him."

"I am not, I'm just being friendly. He looks like he needs a few friends, anyway."

"You say friendly, I say sweet. Like powdered confection sugar."

"Oh, go clean something," the girl tapped her friend on the shoulder, as softly as she knew how. This made Louise laugh in an overtly light-hearted way, and then carry on with her work. Never did she choose to object to anything, and in that regard, the two girls were as different as an orchid and a sunflower. Although the girl at the register preferred to debate and battle for what she thought was right (in a verbal sense), she also knew when and where it was acceptable to back down. Or at least lower her voice.

"You know," Louise turned, and leaned on her broom. A questioning expression contorted her face as she mentioned, "he looks at you awful sweet-like. I really think he doesn't mean you anything, just a little friendship."

The girl pressed her lips together. "You sure know how to make a girl feel guilty."

"That's me, good old Miss Guilt-Trip," said Louise, sweeping the floor with a fervor.

"Louise, don't you think he looks, I don't know, kind of," she searched for the right word, "cute?"

"Didn't you just compare him to-never mind, it's no use."

Shrugging her shoulders, the girl muttered, "I don't know, but I've never met a man like him before. I hope I didn't scare him off."

"Huh, I would hope not either, y-well, he sure left in a hurry," Louise pawed the half-empty coffee container.

Guilt impaled the sensitive girl upon hearing those words. "I really didn't mean to scare him." She glanced up from her work to gaze out the window, "I hope he comes back tomorrow."

Her friend recommenced with cleaning, starting with the cluttered table in front of her, where the man previously sat. "Okay, we'll wish together so that it'll come true."

"You're ridiculous."

"Hey," she picked up an item, "it looks like you."

The girl's interest was piqued after those four words. "What?"

"The picture, here. On second thought, scratch what I said before," Louise leaned the broom on a nearby wall, and trotted back over to her friend. "This guy has got it in for you."

A lump formed in the girl's throat, "'In'? As in, 'in' in?"

"No, murder-mind. Look," Louise handed the notebook to the girl, who scanned over the open page.

"He's a serial killer, I knew it, I knew it!" she exploded in a whisper.

"Shh, shh. That's not what I meant. That's not what _this_ means. I'm not meaning anything either apparently." The friend scratched her scalp, and averted her eyes for a moment, "how can I explain it? Look, when a guy and girl are in love, what happens?" she asked of her suspicious pal.

"They get married."

"No, no, what do they want?"

"To get married."

"Let's try another approach. The general idea of getting married is?"

"To have children."

Louise squeezed the bridge of her nose with two fingers; she should have known the consequent answer would have been that of the Catechism, based on how she phrased the question. "No, that's not it either. Now we're going to peek at the answers. When a guy and a girl are in love, they want to be together, right?"

The girl shrugged, "I guess so."

"And when they can't be together, they get sad and lonely, right?"

"Sure."

"So, that poor sap wanted a picture of you so he wouldn't be so lonely. You see now?" Louise struck a nerve, in a calm sense of the phrase.

"That poor man," the girl brushed her finger over the leather cover of the notebook. "Oh, that poor man." She fired up the muscles in her legs, and dashed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Louise shouted.

The girl spun on her heels once she reached the glass entrance, and uttered in a loud voice, "Don't you understand? I scared him off and he's the only man I've ever loved!" and then ran outside.

Taken aback by the sudden change of heart she witnessed, Louise emitted a long, drawn out sigh. "Poor thing. Can't ever make up her mind. Oh, well."

* * *

The man caught a strange urge to buy a book, which was made even stranger by the fact that he was close to living in the poorhouse. And the side fact that he knew it, too. Still, he returned to the sunlight with a fresh novel in his hands, drowning his mistake in the written word.

He supposed many others had committed the same fault before. Perhaps, in time, she would have forgotten all about their meeting gazes. Perhaps, maybe, one day he could return to the shop, and work up the courage to ask her to dinner. She _was_ the girl he was supposed to marry, he knew that with all certainty. The one thing that could stop him was divine intervention, or a set of eyes, apparently.

"Hey!" a shout from somewhere behind him piqued his eardrums, but he did not look. "Hello, mister!" the second shout rang out and this time, he turned around.

And there she was.

"You forgot your notebook, I didn't want you to think we stole from you or anything," the girl smiled. It was not a cheeky smile. Nor a snide, flirtatious, or demeaning smile. It was the sweetest smile he had ever seen.

"I wouldn't think that of you," the words poured from his lips like a trail of silken chocolate. As awe-stricken as he was, the man was surprised he did not stumble through a misshapen half-sentence.

The girl continued to grin, though in an even sweeter way. "I hope you'll come back tomorrow," her hands handed the notebook into his, and again, his fingers brushed over the smooth skin of her knuckles.

"I-I will," the man promised. "Uh, what's your name?"

The girl placed a foot behind her, and her smile downgraded itself one notch on the adorable chart. "Strange question."

"Well, I've been coming in to your business all this time, and seeing you, but I don't know your name," he spoke nothing but the truth.

The girl seemed puzzled, that was obvious to even a common pedestrian. Nevertheless, her foot returned to situate beside the other, and her smile reformed to its earlier testament to feminine loveliness. "Maria Borgnine. And yours?"

_He knew her name. _

"Howard."

_And she knew his._

Nice to meet you, again," Maria chucked in a soft tone, the one she was most known for.

Now was his chance, she appeared at ease with his companionship. It was now or never, forever hold his peace, leap and not look down. "Would you, I mean...I'm not good at this. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?" Howard asked of the subject of his affections.

Maria stared at him in solemn shock for a moment, and he fretted she would turn him down cold. "You mean, like a date?" she scrunched her eyebrows.

"Well, um, yes," hope floated about his opalescent eyes while he waited for an answer.

"All right," Maria consented, and the butterflies that lived in his stomach were stirred up again. He felt as if he owned the world, and that the world loved him for it.

"Great," Howard tried with all his might to control his excitement and keep his voice steady. "I'll, uh, is seven-thirty okay?"

"Okay."

"Where can I pick you up?"

"The bakery's fine. I'll change, of course," she brushed the dust off her blue jeans.

"I'd really like to get to know you better," he took a chance, and told of his intentions, pure as they were.

"Same here," Maria clasped her hands behind her back.

The excited glow around her face made him want to yell and jump for joy; she was excited to spend time with _him _of all people. He would take her to dinner, then they could go see a movie, and if it wasn't too late afterwards, take a walk on the park. She mentioned offhand once that she liked the ducks that lived in the lake there, though he hoped she never fed them, or went to see them, with any other man. But she was such a beautiful girl, she must have gone on several dates before. It saddened him, but it was a fact he could live with.

"See you tonight?"

"Yes. Goodbye," the smile which never waned was planted firmly on her face before she turned around to leave him. However, she did give him one last wave as well before darting off to her rightful place in the bakery.

On that day, he accomplished the impossible. The man who never accomplished anything at all, found that hope was not lost for men like him: the clumsy, naïve, idealist ones with nothing but a dream to go by. How could he have known then, that he would once more achieve the unachievable?

"Goodbye, Maria," he said her name, and the one word he despised more than anything.

Little did he know, how could he have known, that when that one word mattered most, it would never again be spoken.

Not to the girl at the register.


End file.
